A pair of mini-thrusters flared to life, spitting blue fire against the concrete. The high-pitched whine of the engines—EEEEEEEE—echoed off the narrow walls.
For a short stretch of corridor, Grayson closed the gap in seconds. He rounded the next corner, the friction of the turn sending a spray of sparks—shhhhhhht—against the wall. He bore down on the fleeing Zerg, his silver eyes narrowed murderously.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Keres scrambled, his claws skidded against the floor — skritch-skritch, screee! — as he desperately tried to outrun the alpha flying down the hall behind him.
His legs were already half-healed. The natural regenerative properties of a Zerg were working overtime, but they were still wet, bruised up with a sickening coat of neon-green blood because of Chronos's attack.
The overlapping plates of his chitinous armor clicked and ground together—clack-clack-clack—as he exerted every ounce of his stolen strength to stay ahead.
